Sparks
by Yvraine
Summary: From the Year That Never Was.


Standard disclaimer: if you recognize it, I don't own it.

* * *

He should have married Martha.

It seemed so simple – just find a human female, dazzle her with the wonders of the universe, and she'll choose you over her family, her friends, her species and planet. The Doctor did it all the time. And it was as easy as he'd thought – Lucy fell right into the scripted role.

It wasn't until their lives on the _Valiant_ had settled into routine that he fully realized the problem.

She was perfect – beautiful and blonde, and her familial and societal connections were just what he'd needed for his little project of conquering the Doctor's favorite planet, and she was loyal and devoted to him. And she was boring.

Actually, his whole life was boring. Planetary administration wasn't very exciting. The takeover was fun, but once he'd delivered the final checkmate, it was suddenly over. And it would be a year before the fleets were ready to begin the next phase of the game. In the meantime, he had nothing to do but dance to the blinding drums.

At least he had toys. Lucy, a weak and aged Doctor, the Jones family…

It was the spark in their eyes. He could see it, almost successfully hidden from him. The hostility from Tish, the anger and shame from Francine – _that's right, you believed every line my people fed you_ – and the dry factual reports of Martha Jones and her covert activities were colored by the spirit shown by her family, until he could feel Martha's defiance in the face of impossible odds taunting him through every line of text.

"It's my planet!" he yelled, throwing the papers across the room. "Mine!" The sheaf of reports insolently refused to hit the opposite wall, bursting apart in the air and showering its leaves all over the table and floor.

Sitting on the floor nearby, the Doctor never moved or changed the expression on his lined and elderly face. He certainly never spoke. But his amusement at the Master's uncontrolled reaction was almost palpable through the drumming, and the rest of that afternoon was spent on perfectly appropriate disciplinary actions.

Lucy didn't care.

She didn't join in tormenting the prisoners – they weren't _her_ toys. But neither did she show them any kindness. She just ignored them as much as possible. Nor did she care about Martha – the girl wasn't her problem, no matter how much her Master raged about it. She was just _there,_ drifting along the corridors of the _Valiant,_ drifting from one day to the next.

Lucy's fire faded as Martha's grew.

Now he understood. The Doctor never picked his companions at random, he chose them carefully. They had a spark that could be fanned into a blaze. And if Lucy had any such spark to begin with, it was now gone, dimmed and winked out.

He wasn't sure whether he was more disappointed in her, or in himself for choosing her.

He was almost startled to see her body twist away from him, collapsing against the table. Her hand flew to her jaw and she turned wide frightened eyes to him, before scrambling to her feet and hurrying out of the room. He stared at his own hand, still tingling from the impact, the drums blanketing all his senses.

_Finally, she shows a bit of life. I should do that again._

He was delighted to find a new way to play with one of his toys. He could only vivisect the immortal freak so many times before even that got old.

But inevitably, it faded. The emptiness in her eyes grew, no matter how much he hit her. Oh, she was still breathing, and moving around, and her single heart still beat its odd two-step rhythm, but she might as well be an automaton. He found himself wishing that she'd take part in the occasional uprisings against him, the attempts by the Doctor and the Joneses to turn some slight advantage into unseating him from absolute control. But she never did.

Then the last day finally arrived, the day the fleet would launch, the end of his year-long sentence. The icing on the cake was an especially strong uprising attempt – the Doctor actually got his hands on the laser screwdriver! And capturing Martha Jones on top of that – why, the Master was practically giddy.

She was on her knees before him, a posture of submission that was _not_ reflected in her demeanor. Actually, was she giggling? Is this really _her_ moment of triumph? Can everything really be going this wrong, a dream turning to nightmare?

She shone so vividly. And Lucy, at the edge of the room, was so gray and dead in her bright red dress.

_Oh, Martha. Why couldn't I have married you instead?_

* * *

He wanted to clutch at the ripping pain in his chest, but his hands were still shackled behind his back.

_Well, how about that. She had a spark left, after all._


End file.
